If We Ever Meet Again
by OuEstLaCraie
Summary: Abby was supposed to be a vessel for the archangel Jophiel, but, somewhere along the way, she made a deal and ended up, instead, as Bela Talbot. Now, the Winchesters must go back in time and save her from herself. Rated T - and reviews are adored!
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** _Just another fic involving Bela, because I miss her and I want her back. I have a good amount of this written already and the rest planned (as the story shouldn't be _too_ long), so I'm hoping for relatively quick updates and a completed story! Hope you all enjoy - and don't forget to review! Oh, and a side note to those of you who hate me for never finishing another one of my _Supernatural_ stories, "Daddy's Little Girl": The story isn't dead, it's just on hold! This idea has inspired me to start writing fairly regularly again, and I'm hoping for an end to both this story and "Daddy's Little Girl" :)

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing you recognize; _Supernatural_ belongs to Eric Kripke and the title of the story and lyric right down there belong to Timbaland. Don't sue me - I'm broke!

**- - -  
****ONE  
**_I'll never be the same . . . if we ever meet again._  
**- - -**

**April 2010  
Somewhere in the American Midwest**

Dean had that typical look of perplexity on his face, the characteristic knit eyebrows and mouth half agape as he tried to digest what the angel on his shoulder had just said. "Cas…did you say _vessel_?"

Even as the angel nodded confirmation, Dean still couldn't bring himself to believe it. He'd swallowed a helluva lot of bullshit in this life, had followed his father's authority unquestioningly, had done everything he'd done up until this point more or less without thought. But he had to pause to take this in; it was simply the most unfounded claim he had ever heard. Coming from a man who'd fought and killed monsters all his life, this was saying a lot.

"And, I mean…just…you're sending us back in time? _Again?_" Dean grimaced at the thought. "Dude, this can't be that important. In case you missed it, we're kind of in the middle of Armageddon here."

"I'm aware," Castiel replied, his tone flat and cold, per usual.

Sam jumped into the conversation with both feet. "And I thought you were almost powerless, now that you've been cut off from the other angels."

"It will be…difficult. I don't deny it. But I've been conserving my energy, so to speak – it must be done." He looked from Sam back to Dean, driving home the point. "This is of the utmost importance. To have an archangel as powerful as Jophiel on our side means another solution to our countless problems."

"So now they're _our_ problems," Dean muttered, turning away to compose his thoughts – and to steal a sip from his can of beer. "I get it, we need all the angels we can get to bitch slap Lucifer back into the pit. And one who actually _liked _us would be nice. But, Cas, if you had _known_ this girl, you'd know why Sammy and I think you've gotten your wires crossed." He turned back to face the angel, meeting nothing but a grave stare of mild annoyance. "You picked up the wrong message somewhere, trust me."

"The rules are very clear and the lists are set in stone." Castiel narrowed his eyes, growing weary of the elder Winchester's impertinence. "As I know the names of every prophet across the world, so do I know the set vessels for the seven archangels of Heaven. The regulations cannot be changed to suit our needs, otherwise your brother, Adam, could have easily taken your place as Michael's vessel on Earth."

Sam visibly winced at the mention of their half-brother and Dean glanced away. Seeing as the kid was still missing, a pawn in this internal squabble between the unyielding brothers and the stubborn remaining angels, it was still a touchy subject. Dean turned back to his beer with a growl of contained rage, leaving Sam to ask the million dollar question. "I just don't understand…why Bela?"

"Not Bela Talbot; Abigail Tarrant," Castiel was quick to stress. "As I've explained, she was chosen before her birth to be the vessel for the archangel Jophiel…"

Dean broke in, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, 'because of her foreseen attributes of quiet creativity, diligence, and intelligence.' I'll believe it when I see it."

"Exactly." With that, Castiel gripped each of the brothers' shoulders tightly and shot them from the dingy motel room into the unknown.

**May 1998  
Maidstone, Kent, England**

Stumbling to a stop in an alleyway, Dean braced himself against a brick wall to catch his breath. Reeling on Castiel, he demanded to know, "Where the hell are we, Cas?"

"Better question's probably _when_ the hell are we?" Sam pointed out, and Dean shot him a look to shut him up.

"The year is 1998," Castiel informed them, making a feeble attempt at grooming by straightening his trench coat. He was a little worn, but truly no worse for wear, considering the trip they'd just made. He glanced up into a partially cloudy sky and noted, "It's almost five in the evening." He looked back to the brothers and nodded out towards the street. "And, if you follow this alley out to the street, you'll find yourselves in Maidstone, England, in the county of Kent."

"And what are we supposed to _do_ in Kent?" Dean said, his voice growing louder as his anger increased. "Wait around until Bela wanders by and then kidnap her to keep her safe? She's not going to let us talk to her, let alone believe anything we have to tell her."

"She's a child, Dean," Castiel argued back, genuinely surprised by Dean's outburst, and his tone told the brothers, clearly, that they were being ridiculous. "Abigail is a fourteen-year-old English girl who _must_ be kept from selling her soul. We need her. It's simple."

"Simple?" Dean gave a humorless chuckle. "Nothing's simple with Bela. She's a traitor and a greedy, conniving little…"

"She told you about Lilith," Castiel reminded him with his usual quiet confidence. He would win them over and get them going – eventually. He was used to letting Dean rant and he was willing to let it happen because, in the end, the angel would get his way. "And if Adam has any hope of survival, we'll need an archangel on our side. Saving Abigail may make the difference."

Dean crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest. "She almost killed us. _And _she had my car towed. That bitch."

"True. But that was Bela. You'll have to start thinking of the woman you knew separately from the girl she is _now_, Dean; I believe you're in for a shock." Castiel stifled a sigh. "Come on. We only have a few days until she's set to meet Lilith. You'll have to come up with a credible reason to speak to her in that time, in order to either sway her from making the deal or keep Lilith as far from Abigail as possible."

Sam shrugged at Dean, trying to keep the peace. "Easy enough."

"Yeah, in _our_ time," Dean shot back. "In 2010, we've got everything we need to get into someone's house – the clothes, the badges, the paperwork. We don't have anything here."

"That can all be arranged," Castiel remarked casually, stepping past the brothers to lead them out onto the street. The Winchesters were trapped here until the angel decided to send them back. With a helpless look around, Dean beckoned for Sam to follow Castiel; they had no other choice.

Seven o'clock, Sam decided, should be an appropriate time to come calling – after dinner but not late enough for anyone to be thinking of going to bed. He climbed into his accustomed seat in the rented car that had been awaiting them at a hotel in town that a guidebook had called "charming," smoothing out the tie Castiel had presented him with, along with a dark suit and a matching set for Dean. The angel had come prepared – he'd apparently learned how to exchange money, and most of the American dollars the brothers had been hoarding from various hustling scams were now in British pounds – and the money paired with his icy exterior had hurried the woman at the front desk along in checking them in and finding them a car. The suits had materialized within the hour, followed by all the proper paperwork that listed Dean and Sam as CIA agents. It was a tall order to fill, but better than trying to pass the decidedly American Winchesters off as faithful servants of Her Majesty.

It took Dean a full five minutes (and three attempts to get the car to start and steer) to realize he was sitting on the wrong side of the car to drive. In a torrent of expletives not meant for mixed company, he demanded that he and Sam switch seats, then stormed over to the correct side and did his best driving on the wrong side of the road.

Castiel had given them an address and a few names and then, conveniently, had vanished, so the brothers were left to find the sprawling land and the stately manor house the Tarrant family called home. They rode up a tree-lined gravel driveway that ended in a sweeping circle before the Tudor-style mansion, every tree, bush, and flower in bloom across the dozens of acres the family owned. The sun was just starting to set at this hour, the days growing longer as true summer neared, and Dean parked in the shadows cast by the slanted roofs and gables. The brothers approached the front door in twilight, scanning the area for details – which lights were on in which rooms, other cars (or people) lurking in the vicinity, and obvious paranormal activity. Satisfied that the area was clear, Dean straightened his suit jacket and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, then knocked.

A man well beyond middle-aged but not necessarily elderly opened the door within seconds, looking spiffy in regal silver hair and a plain suit. Dean went for his badge, flashing it quickly before inquiring, "Thomas Tarrant?"

The older man gave a small smile in reply. "Heavens, no – I'm just the butler. Can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're here to speak to Mr. Tarrant. I'm Agent Morrison, and this is my partner, Agent Densmore." Sam flashed his own badge on cue, while the man at the door gave it only a cursory glance before turning back to Dean, with interest. "We're with the Central Intelligence Agency. We'd just like to ask Mr. Tarrant a few questions about a small matter."

"Nothing too serious, I hope," the butler replied conversationally, then beckoned the brothers into the foyer. He shut and locked the door behind them, adding, "Wait right here, just one moment…" before vanishing into the depths of the huge old house in search of its owner. Sam and Dean shared a look. Beyond the foyer was an enormous, sweeping staircase. The banisters were in the same wood as the floors, every surface polished to perfection and every trinket or work of art precisely in place. It was the lap of luxury and _exactly_ what they'd expected a woman with taste like Bela to have come from.

After a few minutes of waiting, another man returned to greet the Winchesters. He was tall, just a hair shy of Sam's height, with wide shoulders, an athletic build, and a confident stride. Dressed in a business suit with a garish tie loosened at the collar, he came forward with a grin of welcome on his face, though the nervous twitch of the eyes didn't escape either of the hunters.

"Good evening," he said in greeting, his voice deep and rich. "I'm Thomas Tarrant. Perkins tells me you gentlemen are from the CIA? Quite a haul, all the way across the pond, aye?" He gave a booming laugh and grasped each of their hands in a firm, warm handshake. "What can I clear up for you?"

Sam took the lead. "We can't go into too much detail, Mr. Tarrant, I apologize. But my partner and I have been following some illegal activities across the globe, all of which seem to have their origin in this part of the United Kingdom."

"We were actually hoping to speak to you daughter," Dean put in.

"Abby?" Thomas seemed genuinely perplexed. "What the devil has she got to do with an international criminal investigation?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing at all," Dean quickly assured him, "but sources tell us the daughter of one of our major suspects may be a student at your daughter's private school."

"Ah, I see – chasing the father by interrogating the daughter? Wise, gentlemen, very wise." Thomas graced them both with an appreciative smile, the kind of look shared between conspirators. He was warm and jovial enough, but there was obviously something not quite _right_ with him. He took a step backward, beckoning for the phony CIA agents to follow his lead. "Come along, then, and I'll see if I can't find her for you."

They walked through a labyrinth of well-trimmed halls into the south wing of the house, until Thomas, at last, paused before a set of heavy double doors. "My study," he explained, and a small smile played on his lips. "She's always lurking around in here." He turned both of the ornate curved handles and shoved the doors open before him to reveal a relatively large room lined on all sides by books, ranging from contemporary novels to ancient tomes. A large fireplace, the hearth and mantle in white marble, was set into the wall opposite the doors, while a desk comparable to that of any CEO in the world stood to their right and a cozy sitting area filled the space before the fireplace. On a thick rug stood a coffee table, a sofa, two ottomans and their matching armchairs, and in the armchair nearest the darkened fireplace, highlighted only by the single bulb of an expensive reading lamp, sat a girl. The moment before the doors had opened, she had been nestled against one arm of the enormous chair, her feet tucked under her and a heavy book settled on her lap. As the doors swung open, her head shot up from the page like a fox startled by the hunting hounds, her entire body stiff and alert as her eyes went wide with unabashed terror at the sight of her father's hulking frame in the doorway. The pin-straight hair was the same shade of brown and her eyes were almost the same, missing only the glint of contemptuous mirth she'd learned later in life, but Dean's breath caught at the sight of Bela as a skittish teenage girl, huddled in a chair, reading, like any other studious nerd on the planet.

The girl's eyes roved quickly from her father to the two younger men accompanying him into the room, as if assessing the danger she was going to be in. Sam, too, was struck by the haunting eyes of someone so familiar, yet entirely not who he and his brother had known her to be, and the emotions plain on her face somehow didn't fit there, as she'd only ever seemed to capable of devilish glee and aggravated impertinence.

Thomas crossed the room to his daughter, who had forced a weak smile to greet him. "Here you are, Abby, as always. Sweetheart, these men are from the CIA. They'd like a word."

"Y-yes, Daddy," she stuttered obediently, steeling herself against the hand he rested on her shoulder.

Thomas turned back to the Winchesters, indicating the sofa across from where his daughter sat. "Have a seat, please. Would either of you care for something to drink?"

The girl obviously wouldn't be of any help with her father in the room. Dean snuck a glance at her before replying, "No, thank you, Mr. Tarrant. But we were hoping to speak to, eh…_Abigail_ alone." That name didn't sound right on his tongue. He shrugged. "It's a little easier that way. Kids clam up when their parents are watching."

Thomas glanced down at his daughter with an understanding glint in his eyes, managing a slightly intimidating smile when she raised her eyes to meet his and offered a tiny smile of her own. "Children," Thomas murmured with a sigh, then patted Abigail on the shoulder and turned to leave the room. He paused in the doorway and looked back to Sam and Dean. "If you require assistance, just yell for the butler, Perkins – you've met Perkins? – good. And I'll only be down the hall in the parlor if you need me." He eyed them all once, then backed out of the room with a bow of the head, shutting only one door firmly and leaving the other ajar, undoubtedly to eavesdrop.

The air settled and there was a full minute of complete silence. The teenager seated across from them didn't seem to be breathing, as she clutched the book tight to her chest and tried to keep from staring at them with unguarded interest. Sam slipped a small notepad and pen from the inside pocket in his suit jacket and Dean shifted on the seat, giving the room a once-over out of habit. It was a nice place, but he could never understand how these rich snobs managed to feel at home in a place that closer resembled a museum than a living space.

The elder Winchester cleared his throat loudly, noting how the girl gave a strangled gasp in fright at the sudden sound and focused all of her attention on Dean. It made him uncomfortable, those eyes boring into his, the personality at odds with everything he'd come to believe about Bela. He leaned forward and plastered a charming grin on his face. "So, uh, Abigail, right?"

"…Abby," she corrected shyly, mustering a weak smile in reply to his own.

"Abby. Right." He nodded his chin down the couch, in Sam's direction, where his brother sat with pen poised, waiting to take notes that were relevant to the case at hand. "Make a note of that."

She chuckled at that, softening towards them. "Abby Tarrant. Shall I spell it for you?"

There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but Dean heard it that way. He restrained the usual urge to throttle her and continued on with the meeting. "I think we've got, honey. I'm Agent Morrison, and this is Agent Densmore…"

"Like The Doors?" she interjected, with a smile that was a little more genuine.

_Damn – leave it to Bela to be a fan and blow our cover. _"Yeah, we've heard that a million times. Ironic, huh?" Dean said smoothly, recovering with ease. "I'm really more of a metal fan, myself, but you have to show the ancestors some respect." He couldn't believe he was having an honest-to-God conversation with this woman he'd never thought of as more than a step or two above a maggot. Maybe Cas had been right – he was definitely shocked by all this.

Sam broke into his brother's thoughts to get to the point by asking, "Abby, what school do you go to?"

She glanced sharply at Sam, as if she'd forgotten his presence, then grew quiet again. "The…the prep school – the only one here – on the other side of the town." She huddled deeper into the armchair. "Did something happen? Am I in trouble?"

Sam shook his head and was careful to keep his tone quiet, working his sympathetic eyes and kindly half-smile to his advantage. "No, you're not in trouble. We're actually trying to find out a little bit more about one of your classmates. Or, maybe, she's a friend of yours from outside school?"

"She's blonde, probably a little younger than you," Dean picked up. "She might have said her name is Lilith…?" It wasn't subtle, but he doubted Abby, who looked about ready to have a breakdown over a simple conversation, was a spy for the Underworld. And, besides, he wasn't entirely sure what other names the demon could have been living under, if she'd given Abby a name at all; it was worth a try.

She regarded them both with suspicion. Slowly, choosing the best course on which to proceed, she replied, "I don't know anyone like that."

"You're a terrible liar; you know that?" Dean almost added that she needn't worry about this fact – she'd be a master of the art of manipulation, someday – but held his tongue and waited for a reply.

Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grasp on her book, either trying to keep from getting angry or frightened; it wasn't entirely clear which. She shot a glance at Sam's notebook, met Dean's eyes for less than second, then gave a tiny gasp and averted her gaze to the hearth. She didn't say a word.

Sam shared a look with his brother, silently asking how to proceed. Which one of them could handle this situation better? Dean could be charming – or harsh. Sam was a little easier to talk to, but she didn't seem to have responded very well to him. Dean rubbed the back of his head and took the reins again. "See, Abby, we don't _want_ you to be in trouble, but you'll be just as guilty as your friend if you don't tell us where we can find her."

She looked up at that, practically shaking with fear at the idea of guilt by association, for a crime she couldn't even imagine. She half opened her mouth, forming a reply, then shut it again and rested her chin on her book, lowering her eyes again, resolutely.

"Come on, we just want to know if you know her." Dean inched forward on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees and head lowered, as he tried to catch her eye. "It's just us in here – just you and me. And the sasquatch here, but he really doesn't count, right?" She raised her eyes a bit, but lowered them immediately. There was something there, a spark of intrigue. Dean smirked. _Gotcha_. "You don't even have to say anything, Abby. Just nod if you know this girl we were telling you about." She didn't move. "Think about it – a little blonde girl, maybe you met her at school, maybe in town, maybe in your own backyard. She probably told you things, made a few promises."

"Did she say that she could make things better?" Sam asked quietly, setting the notebook aside.

The brothers waited in silence. Thirty seconds seemed an eternity until the teenager before them, slowly but surely, gave two subtle nods of the head.

With a heavy sigh, Dean sat back on the couch, settling comfortably into the leather. _Now_ they were getting somewhere. "Did she make you an offer? Some kind of deal?"

"She…" Abby pursed her lips, putting her thoughts into words with careful consideration. Dean waited; Sam took up his notebook again, quietly, and waited for the answer. "She talked about how she had…helped a lot of people. She talked about deals; I got frightened by it all and just told her I was fine and walked away."

_Good girl._ "So, you didn't make one of those agreements with her?" Dean prodded. It complicated things that Abby had already met Lilith, that, maybe, they were already forming some kind of strange friendship, but if she wasn't considering a deal yet, then they were still in the clear.

Thankfully, Abby shook her head. A little reproachful, she replied bitingly, "Didn't I say she frightened me? Why on earth would I have pursued _anything _with her?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at the sudden insolence while Dean managed to keep his small smirk from becoming a full grin of contempt. In response, Abby glanced from one brother to the other before dropping her head again without another word.

"And have you talked to her since?" Sam asked, as he jotted down a few notes on what they were dealing with.

She shot Sam a look, obviously growing exasperated with them both. "Of course not," she scoffed, immediately averting her eyes again and muttering an apology. She hadn't meant it to come out _quite_ so rudely, but wasn't it obvious how badly shaken she was with this Lilith business? And, now, to have the CIA coming after the girl? Who knew what Abby could have gotten herself into? She resolved to never speak to the strange girl again, even if Lilith _did_ have the pleasurable habit of showing up just when Abby so desperately needed someone to talk to. Meekly, she raised her head and saw Dean, eyeing her with something like amusement...or maybe confusion? "Is that…all?"

Sam glanced at his brother and gave him a nearly indistinguishable nod. Dean had noticed it, too – Abby was done for the day. Besides, they had a good amount of information to go off of now. They just had to keep the house under surveillance and keep their eyes open for Lilith. Whether the keeper of the deals died or not wasn't entirely the point; they were just here to keep Abigail Tarrant safe, to keep her from growing up into Bela Talbot.

Dean stood first and Sam followed his lead. "I think we're done here, for now," Dean said. He looked down at Abby, who was still curled into a defensive ball in her armchair, and graced her with a devastatingly charismatic grin. "We may have to be in touch again, but you've been a big help today. Oh, and if you think of something we should now or if you need us for anything…" He dug one of the business cards he'd swiped from the hotel's front desk out of an inner pocket on his suit and held it out to the girl. "This is where we're staying, room three-oh-four. Give us a call."

After half a moment's hesitation, Abby reached out a hand and grasped the offered card between two fingers, careful not to brush Dean's fingers with her own. She felt her face color, knowing his eyes were on her, and she kept her head bowed. "Thank you, Agent Morrison," she murmured, and tucked the card into her book for safe-keeping. The brothers left her there, running, conveniently, into Thomas Tarrant in the hall. They thanked the man for his time and then left. Sam was flipping through his notes, trying to brainstorm ways to lure Lilith into some kind of trap, to keep her away from Abigail; Dean was just impressed that Abby had remembered his pseudonym, when he had entirely forgotten who he was supposed to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note: _**I probably should have mentioned before the first chapter, but this story takes place just after Adam vanishes (so, after the end of 5.18 "Point of No Return" but before the following episode). No spoiler alerts, really, since the story deals mostly with 1998 England instead of 2010 America. Just figured I should mention that.

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own _Supernatural_ or anything remotely related to it. Title and any chapter lyrics mentioned belong to Timbaland. I'm not stealing anything; Scout's honor!

**- - -  
TWO  
**_Say, what's somebody like you doing in a place like this?_**  
- - -**

**May 1998  
Maidstone, Kent, England**

Surveillance seemed to be the best way to go, as far as watching out for Abby and trying to locate Lilith was concerned, and both of the brothers agreed on the plan. The following day, Sam tried his hand at driving on the English roads in order to get to the libraries and museums at his disposal in London, hoping he'd stumble upon something of interest. Dean took the first shift of reconnaissance in town, wandering through the village in his official-looking suit and eying every small blonde child he saw with careful scrutiny. He quietly interviewed a few residents, but even his suave, American demeanor couldn't make the villagers tell him things they didn't know. It seemed like no one but Abby had seen Lilith, and the brothers didn't even know exactly when the two girls had first met. They had a vague where and, though it didn't help, they had a bit of a why, but none of that helped if they didn't know when they had to be there to save her.

Around four in the afternoon, Dean spotted Abby on a bicycle, riding home from school. It was a helluva walk out to the Tarrant homestead, but he had a few questions for the girl and no car – and, besides, what better way to keep an eye on her than to join her, again, on her home turf? She was pedaling lazily, in absolutely no rush to get home (Dean didn't blame her), so he waited a good ten minutes before starting his own trek after her.

You didn't realize how far away "just on the edge of town" was until you were trying to walk there, especially when you were trying to make it there with some part of your dignity intact (and without sweating through your expensive three-piece suit). It wasn't exactly hot, or even particularly sunny, but Dean was about ready to keel over and beg for a piece of good old American apple pie halfway up the Tarrant driveway, after a solid half-hour of walking. It was going to look suspicious, him showing up alone, on foot, without a car in sight or his "partner" in tow; Dean hadn't thought that far ahead. He just knew he had to talk to Abby again and find out whatever he could from her. Hopefully, she would warm up to him quicker than she had the day before. And he felt more useful doing this, anyway – he was in the field, while Sammy continued his search for knowledge amongst the dusty tomes in some city library.

Dean rapped on the door, then took a step back to settle into his official CIA stance. He stole a glance backward, over his shoulder, and took stock of the vehicles in the circular gravel drive before the house – three cars, none of them Thomas Tarrant's silver Jaguar, and the shiny bike he'd seen Abby on. If he was lucky, Perkins the butler would open the door; better, Abby herself.

The Winchesters weren't the kind to have their prayers answered or their wishes granted; this time was no exception. An elegant, hardly-middle-aged blonde in some kind of designer skirt and blouse duo and kitten heels answered the door, a mug in her hand that was probably supposed to look like mid-afternoon coffee but was, in fact, as Dean's expert nose pointed out, bourbon.

The woman blinked, taking in the sight of Dean on her doorstep, then lowered the mug from her lips and flashed Dean a tiny, seductive smile. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Well, maybe this could work to his advantage, too. A woman who was immediately enamored with him would be easy to manipulate; hell, he probably wouldn't even have to flash his badge or say a word of introduction before strolling into her home like he belonged there. But, just to make his job as simple as possible, Dean gave the woman a friendly grin in return and took out his false identification. "Hello, ma'am, my name's Dean Morrison; I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency. My partner and I stopped by yesterday to speak to your husband and daughter about one of our investigations."

"Oh, yes – yes, of course! Come in, darling, come in…" She beckoned him into the foyer with her free hand (the one _not _clasping her mug of whiskey), then shut the front door behind him. She stealthily admired him as he studied the house for the second time in as many days, and added, "Thomas mentioned you had come by. I'm very sorry we were not introduced yesterday evening; I was very busy. You understand, of course – a woman's work is never done." She gave a tittering laugh, a tad tipsy.

Dean suppressed a grimace of disgust; he would usually welcome light conversation and thinly veiled come-ons, but this woman practically stunk of desperation. And whatever was going on in this household, Mrs. Tarrant undoubtedly had something to do with it. "Of course," he echoed with forced friendliness. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tarrant."

"Oh, please, call me Alice." Laughing, she snatched his hand from his side and just held it. Apparently that passed for a handshake with the English gentry.

"Well, then, Alice, now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way, I'm going to have to get back to my work." He grinned, and Alice played right into his hand, giggling like a schoolgirl. "I was hoping I'd be able to speak to your daughter, Abigail, again."

A dark shadow crossed Alice Tarrant's face at the mention of her daughter, her eyes darkening and narrowing in fleeting, irrational rage. "I suppose you didn't speak to her very long yesterday," she admitted soberly, raising her mug to her lips again to rectify that. "If it will help whatever it is you're working on, then I'll be…_happy_ to allow you to speak to Abigail again."

"Thank you very much; I appreciate it." Dean nodded his head in subtle thanks, rocking back on his heels as Alice wandered down a hallway in search of Abby. A good amount of time – ten minutes, Dean would ballpark – elapsed before the woman of the house reappeared. Her supply of bourbon replenished, she waved vaguely towards the back of the house and informed him, "She's outside, on that God awful, rusty old swing set. She seems a bit vacant, but I'm sure you can snap her out of it; God knows _I_ can't."

"Out back; gotcha." He sidestepped around the woman. "You don't mind if I head out there alone?"

In response, she waved her hand in the air again in the general direction of the back of the house, with something like disgust. "Go, go," she said, scowling. "Just keep walking until you find the kitchen, then there's a door out to the terrace. You have my permission to ask her whatever you want. If you can get more than two words out of her, I'll _pay_ you."

"Right." Dean turned away and began his journey to the backyard, weaving past the library, a home office, and a room that could only be described as an honest-to-God parlor. Finally, he reached the kitchen, a surprisingly open and comfortable room. It was a little too big and a little too clean to be truly homey, but it was a nicer place to hang out than anywhere else in the house, in Dean's opinion. Plus, there was an enormous refrigerator and a door, half open, that led to a well-stocked pantry; he'd have to get himself invited over for a meal before this mission was over.

The door did, in fact, lead out to a terrace. Thin slabs of granite were protected partially by a high brick arch, making the entry to the grounds beyond closer resemble that of a grand palace rather than the back door on a simple country home. The granite led out to a porch lined with an iron railing with a short flight of steps at either end, leading down to the well-manicured grass and the now dying shrubs and flowers of spring. Dean paused at the head of the stairway to his right and looked out over the backyard. But "backyard" was an insult to this immense space; "meadow" was closer, though only in sheer size, as the happy connotation wasn't quite right, either. The trimmed foliage gave way to dense thickets and the beginnings of a true forest about a mile or so out. Farther to his right stood the "God awful" swing set Mrs. Tarrant had referred to with such scorn. And, there, seated on one of the swings with her head drooped and shoulders slumped, was Abby. Dean had a moment of panic, remembering what Abby – _Bela_ – had mentioned of her deal with Lilith a few years back. There had been something about meeting her on the swings, about sealing the deal right where she now sat. But there wasn't a little blonde demon in sight and, if she wasn't lying, Abby had already sworn off her strange new friend. Dean straightened his tie, then descended the stairs and began the walk out to meet her.

When he was about a dozen feet away, Dean cleared his throat loudly and called jovially, "Hey, there!"

He'd obviously broken into a deep concentration, as Abby nearly fell off the swing in her attempt to spot him. _And lovely, now you look like an idiot,_ she chastised herself, then hurried to recover by resettling on the swing and tucking a stray slip of hair behind her ear. She wished she'd changed when she got home from school, so she wouldn't be stuck out here in her damn uniform, but it couldn't be helped. Dean was coming closer, and she hadn't yet said a word of greeting. "Hello," she managed, forced cheeriness shooting her voice out of its natural range and into the realm of Minnie Mouse. She was mortified, but Dean's smile made it a little better. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Good afternoon, Agent Morrison."

Dean put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the swing set, smiling down at Abby. She had an enormous book perched on her lap and a pen twirling idly in her right hand. "A little light reading?"

She reddened. "History textbook," she corrected shyly. "I have homework to finish."

"Well, if it's a bad time, then I can come back later…"

"It's fine," she hurried to assure him, closing the book and dropping it in the dust without a second thought. "It's just about the Byzantine empire – it's not like anything's going to change."

Dean gestured to the empty swing beside hers. "Mind if I sit, then?"

She couldn't find words, so she just shook her head; she didn't mind. Of _course _she didn't mind.

Dean took a seat on the other swing. The plastic seat was weathered and the chains were a little rusty, but it wasn't as bad as Mrs. Tarrant had made it sound. It was probably the memories it represented, rather than its outward appearance, that so perturbed the woman, but Dean wasn't one to judge without facts. Beside him, Abby swayed in careful time, backward half a foot, forward half a foot, and he couldn't resist the primal, childhood urge for movement. Subtly rocking side to side, Dean focused his thoughts and picked an opening question. "You come out here a lot?"

She shrugged and hazarded a glance in his direction. "I suppose. It's quiet. And I can be alone."

Dean gestured back toward the house with a nod of the head. "What, the house doesn't have enough space for you?" he teased lightly. "C'mon, you must have a room the size of the Bellagio." She looked at him blankly, confused and a little apologetic for not understanding the reference. "It's a hotel, in Vegas."

"Oh." She pushed herself back and forth with one foot, the other leg hooked under the opposite knee. "We have space, but…no privacy. Do you understand?" She kept her eyes on the small clouds of dirt that formed around her loafers, but she still saw the grave interest on his face. "I can't really be alone, not inside. Someone always finds me – usually my father. He can't be bothered to come out here. If he needs me…" The words died in her throat. She shouldn't have been even _thinking_ about airing the family's dirty laundry in front of an officer of the law, let alone _hinting _at it. She recovered, "He just waits for me to come inside for supper, if he has to talk to me, or anything. I can be out here for hours, and no one bothers me."

"No one but that girl you were telling my partner and I about."

Abby shifted uncomfortably on the seat. "I told you, I only met her once and I haven't spoken to her since," she reiterated quietly.

Dean raised an eyebrow and turned the swing so he was almost facing her, then leaned forward. "Not once since that first time? You haven't said a word to her? You didn't make plans to meet her again?"

Her knuckles whitened as her hold on the rusty chains tightened. "No," she said, her voice uncharacteristically cold.

Dean narrowed his eyes, but moved away from the offending topic. "Where, exactly, did you first meet this girl, Abby, and when?"

Abby looked over to the swing Dean occupied and nodded. "Right there. I was out here, sitting in this swing. It was only a few weeks ago, and she just…she showed up in the other swing. I'd…had a fight with my father. And I was upset. She asked what was wrong, but I didn't want to talk about it." She turned her face away, rubbing viciously at her eyes to keep tears from falling. Her voice grew shriller, more emotional, as she continued, "She started saying things – too many nice things, like compliments and secrets and – "

"Promises?" He watched for her reply; as she had in the library the day before, she nodded. He pushed the questioning farther. "Did she promise to help you?"

"She said…" Abby turned away from him fully, so Dean nearly had to kneel in the dirt to hear her. She had stopped swinging; even the usual comfort of lazy movement, back and forth until suppertime, had lost its magic. Softly, she admitted, "She said she could fix things. She didn't say anything specific, really; she didn't have time. My father came out to fetch me just after she'd started to explain how she could…" _Get rid of them? Give you an escape?_ She shuddered at those choice phrases; she couldn't tell him that, not now, probably not ever. "…how she could help me."

"You didn't agree to anything, did you?" She wouldn't look at him now. Dean knew she was shy, but the way she was blatantly ignoring him – frankly, it was having a bad effect on his blood pressure. He was worried that she'd lied, lied about not seeing the girl between their first meeting and now, lied about not making a deal that would cost her life. "Abby, you _didn't_ make a deal with her, right?" He grabbed her shoulder, the only way to literally grab her attention. "It's very important that you didn't say yes to _anything _she said." Her eyes were wide, frightened; Dean scowled in frustration. "_Did she make you a deal and did you accept, or not?_"

"No, I didn't!" she yelled back at him, shaking off his hand with a surprising forcefulness and gripping the far chain with both hands, trying to get as far from him as possible. She was still scared out of her wits, but there was a haunted look in her eyes, the look of someone who'd fought too many times before – and had never won. She took a breath, inhaling the fresh air tinged with grass and wild herbs, and resisted the urge to run, flailing back into the house. At the very least, Dean looked sorry to have upset her when she snuck a peek at his expression; _how nice of him_. "She mentioned that for her to do something for me, I'd have to give her something," she explained, feeling relatively calm despite her obviously unsteady voice. "She couldn't explain anything because we were interrupted. Da-Daddy came out on the terrace and called for me; he was angry. And she was scaring me. I couldn't take it, so I just got up and walked away." She slackened her hold on the swing, only a little, and looked back at Dean over her shoulder, shyly. "I ran into the woods until dark. It only made Daddy angrier, but I got away from both of them for longer than I ever had."

"I thought you said you liked hanging out back here," Dean replied, keeping his voice quiet to avoid startling her. He'd apologize for scaring her later, if he remembered. If he didn't – well, he didn't owe her anything. Even with the evidence before him, Dean was still having a hard time differentiating between the Abby before him and the Bela he remembered. It was tough to be nice to someone who, in ten years, would shoot your little brother and steal your winning lottery tickets.

Abby settled a little more comfortably onto the swing seat again. "I do," she said. She looked at him, holding his gaze even after she wanted to look away in alarm. "It's still _my_ place. But I feel like…like my world's shrinking." She paused, collected her thoughts. Her words came out in a hushed sigh, as she added, "I'm running out of places to run. There isn't a safe place for me – not anymore. It's all just…ruined."

Now, what was there to say to all _this_? Dean reached out a hand and awkwardly placed it on her shoulder, a show of comfort, of solidarity. Abby gazed in awe at his hand for a long moment, before she mustered the courage to let her eyes flicker to his face again and then away. "It'll get better," Dean insisted, shaking her a little to drive the point home. "Just stay the hell away from that girl, all right? You don't need her to fix things and you don't _want_ her to help your out, _trust me_. And, I mean, come on…" He gave her a toothy grin until she raised her head to look at him again. "You've got me on your side; you don't need anyone else. Make your own luck, and give me a call when you need a little help."

She smiled sadly at him. "You won't be here forever, Agent Morrison, sir. What am I supposed to do when you're gone?"

"Well, first of all, 'Agent Morrison, sir' is my father; call me Dean." He smiled appreciatively when she laughed lightly at the lame-ass joke. "And, second, don't worry about when I'm gone. I'm here now, and I'm gonna try to make things to great that you won't even miss me when I'm gone. By the time I'm through with you, you won't need me."

_But I'll still want you here_. With every word and every smile, Abby felt her fragile teenage heart breaking. She'd never been outlandishly boy crazy; hormones didn't seem to even register with her introverted personality. Crushes were common at her age, but she'd acted on none of them since those years had begun. But she'd only met Agent Morrison – _Dean_, she corrected herself, and let a contented grin flash across her face before it disappeared again into the mask of indifference she frequented – yesterday and, here she was, ready to throw herself at his feet and beg him to take her away with him. It wasn't just his appearance, or what kind of escape he could offer her; Abby was absolutely convinced that she was in utterly and irrevocably in love.

She decided to be a little bold. "Can we talk about something else?" she asked, nearly whining in her desperation to move away from work and delve into pleasure (_nothing like __**that**__!_) with the older man. She glanced over at him as he opened his mouth to argue. "Please don't say again how important this is. I understand you; I promise. But it isn't exactly the most jovial topic of conversation, yeah?"

Dean allowed a half smile of amusement. "I told you I liked classic rock, right? What kind of music are you into?" Who was even big now? He couldn't remember much beyond a few lines of sappy pop songs a couple of girls had forced on him in high school – it didn't seem promising.

"Actually, you said you liked metal music," she corrected, keeping her eyes downcast. She couldn't resist the chance to prove him wrong, but she knew how terrible that sounded – who remembered a trivial bit of conversation from a talk she'd had the day before? _Bloody ridiculous_.

"Right. Metal." He glanced at her, bemused, and humored her. "I like rock, too. Not Elvis Presley and not the alternative crap my brother listens to. Led Zeppelin, Guns N' Roses, Styx, AC/DC, Aerosmith – y'know, _good _stuff."

"You have a brother?" Abby asked, filing his preferred musical selections away for safe keeping in the recesses of her imagination and zeroing in on this fun familial fact. She watched him nod and sighed quietly. "That must be nice. I don't have any siblings."

"So I noticed," Dean teased in reply.

"Right; of course." She reddened and fell into a mortified silence. His tone was light, and she knew he was just trying to be funny, but he still had this strange habit of making her feel like a mindless buffoon. She felt his eyes on her again and clenched her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting – _or running._ She honestly _liked_ talking to him, when it wasn't about what she may or may not have said to a mysterious little girl he and his partner seemed to want to find. She also liked the way his suit hung on his athletic frame, the way his eyes looked in the half-light of approaching twilight, the way his voice got all gravelly with concern whenever he realized he had to coax her out of one of her gloomy spells. Not even twenty-four hours, and she had already committed his face and voice to memory. She wondered absently if her father had any Guns N' Roses in his vast collection of old A-tracks and records…

Dean was growing more and more uncomfortable by the slowly passing minute, but he didn't want to simply stand and excuse himself. He was half-hoping to get some more useful information out of her; he also _wasn't_ looking forward to the walk back into town. He cleared his throat, glad to get a reaction from her, and asked, "So, uh…what kind of music do you listen to?" He forced a friendly laugh. "Not my stuff, I'm guessing." She probably listened to opera, or something – something terrible and parent-approved. It was all he could imagine of her musical taste (or, rather, her lack thereof).

"I…I listen to…" She liked music. This _should've_ been a simple answer. But she couldn't admit to her love of Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich in front of a man like Dean. Not only would she be playing right into his stereotypes, she'd also be letting the cat out of the bag on her second-biggest secret: no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't find a way to be _normal_. "I like the…Spice Girls," she said, her voice sounding lame even in her own ears. She had to find a way to recover; she liked thinking on her feet, putting her wit to the test, but she didn't have a chance to exercise her cunning often and she couldn't think of a way to make herself sound like the kind of girl he might actually like talking to. She tried her best by adding, "And I listen to All Saints. A little." _One song – same thing_. She shrugged. "I'll try listening to anything at least once, honestly." She gave him a small smile, a little too alluring for a fourteen-year-old. "I might have to give some of your favorites a try; I've been looking for some new music lately."

"I'll see what I can pull together for you." Dean didn't think he'd ever get used to her personality shifts, even if he spent more than one short week with her. One minute, he was grasping for conversation; the next, he was stumbling for a reply to some witty retort or thinly veiled come-on. _She's still Bela, just not as bad_, he realized – there was the same brain inside that skull, just working for a very different goal. He gave her an appreciative smile for her attempt at charm; her heart melted.

They talked until the sun dipped below the treetops. About what, exactly, Dean wouldn't have been able to explain beyond that night; he couldn't really put words to any of it in the moment. There hadn't been much talk of family or friends – the conversation revolved around likes and dislikes, touched on dreams and goals and hobbies and ambitions, made mention of pets and more favorite songs and favorite movies. He remembered when she'd admitted to using all of her allowance to see _Titanic_ fifteen times the week it had come out, and she'd laughed when he (jokingly, of course) said he, too, adored the Spice Girls. Eventually, Dean stole a glance at his watch and noted that it was almost seven o'clock; when he shared this information with Abby, she glanced fearfully back at the house. The look in her eyes – _that_ was exactly what made it hard for Dean to label their conversation one way or the other. She'd been sharing, but not entirely; she hadn't lied, but she'd held enough back to make it obvious that she had secrets to keep. He had an idea of what to expect, from what Bela had confided before her final moments were up, but he didn't like thinking about the specifics.

"My father's probably home," she said quietly, then pulled herself up and off the swing and collected her history book and pen. "I should be getting inside."

He didn't comment on the edge to her tone or the glint in her eye that told him something wasn't right – if it wasn't the paranormal, it wasn't his business. He simply rose and put a guiding hand on her shoulder. "I'll walk you in."

The kitchen was deserted, and it almost seemed like the rest of the house had decided to go that route, too. Perkins (who, apparently, had quarters in the northern wing of the house, beyond the kitchens) was nowhere in sight and Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant appeared to be missing in action. Abby almost let herself get excited by this turn of events, but as she and Dean reached the foyer, her father appeared on the stairs, descending from the second floor with an empty glass in his hand. He paused on the steps, taking in the sight of his daughter and the man he still assumed to be a CIA agent, then plastered his business-as-usual smile on his face and greeted Dean warmly. "My wife mentioned you were here," he said, continuing his descent with his eyes on Dean. Subtly, he turned his attention to his daughter. "You weren't giving Agent Morrison any trouble, were you, Abby?"

"No, Daddy," she nearly whispered, edging away from the stairs – away from her father.

Dean forced a smile as his stomach roiled. "She's been very helpful, Mr. Tarrant. You've got a great daughter here."

"Yes," he replied, his polite smile curling into a Cheshire Cat-like grin, "I like to think so, too."

There was an awkward moment of indecision amongst them all. Dean hovered near the front door, ready to see himself out but now hesitant to leave. Abby had her arms wrapped around her textbook, clutching it to her chest like a shield, and she looked ready to take off at the drop of a hat. Thomas Tarrant kept his gaze on her for another beat, before he wiped the unbecoming leer off his face and replaced it with a smile guaranteed to put anyone at ease.

"My wife wasn't feeling well and has gone to bed early; she regrets not being able to have offered you any of our hospitality, but wishes you well," Thomas picked up diplomatically, holding out a hand for Dean to shake.

Dean reached out and grasped the older man's hand firmly, hastily pumping it up and down twice before stepping away again. "Thank your wife for me. And I thank you all for allowing me to talk to Abby. My partner and I are hoping to close our case as soon as possible, and she's been a big help."

"Of course, of course – whatever you need, we're happy to help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few tasks to attend to." He nodded to Dean, shifting the glass to the opposite hand and shooting his daughter a look. "Is that history studying of yours all finished?"

She nodded weakly. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good." He let a smile flicker on and off his features, for Dean's sake, then strode down the hall, back towards the kitchen.

After a brief moment of silence, Dean turned towards the door and placed is hand on the knob. "You really are a great kid," he said, and it was damn hard for him to admit it. He glanced down the hallway to make sure Thomas was gone, then smiled down at Abby and gave her a sly wink. "We'll be in touch, Miss Tarrant."

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

He thought about it; he and Sam would be swapping surveillance duty, so his little brother would be lurking around the next day. "Probably not," he said, then, at her fallen face, hurried to add, "but my partner might be around. And I'm thinking I might have to stop in again the day after that."

It wasn't much, but it was something for Abby to look forward to. She managed a true smile for him. "I'll await your arrival, then, Agent Morrison."

Dean opened the door and stepped outside. "G'night, Abby."

"Good evening…Dean." She shut the door behind him, her heart pounding, for once, not with worry or dread, but with the happy thump of teenage love. Outside, in the falling darkness, Dean was looking forward to the long walk home; there was plenty he had to process from this day.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: _**So . . . I totally though I had posted this already *awkward chuckle* Anyway, I guess I was trying to wait until I finished the next chapter before I posted this, but too bad. Enjoy this relatively short next part of the story until I can get Chapter Four done (hopefully within the week?). There are only another two or three chapters left, so keep an eye out :]

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing - _Supernatural _and the song "If We Ever Meet Again" are in no way mine, and in no way am I using them to make money. Just sayin'.

**-  
THREE  
**_Tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.  
_ **-**

******May 1998  
****Maidstone, Kent, England**

Abby had a history test that morning in school, but she hadn't finished the review sheet she owed her teacher on the Byzantine Empire and she could do nothing but stare blankly at the questions typed neatly onto the crisp white paper. It was eight o'clock in the morning, an un-Godly hour to have one's knowledge of historical events tested. But, to be fair, this morning, she couldn't blame her lack of concentration on the early hour. She couldn't even convince herself that it was her family _issues_ that were keeping her mind far from the ancient world. None of the usual, mundane reasons fit.

No – it was all because of Agent Morrison.

Abby couldn't think of anything beyond him. Even her fear of the strange girl had faded into the background, leaving her with a relatively empty head. The test was hopeless; with a sigh, Abby pushed it aside and turned her head to glance out the window. Of course, she couldn't be without her deeper fears for very long.

Her fellow students, foolish little boys and girls with nothing but their social statuses to worry about, scribbled away, as their teacher sat at her desk and read a romance novel, under the guise of grading papers. None of them noticed Abby, described as simply "quiet" on a good day and "downright strange" when she attempted to say a word, nor did they see the tiny blonde girl leaning nonchalantly in the window frame. There was a devious little smile on her face as she drummed her fingers on the windowsill, apparently appearing only to Abby, and, for just a fleeting moment, the little girl's eyes burned red.

Her lips parted in a vicious sneer. "Good morning, Abby, dear," she said, the warm greeting marred by an undercurrent of biting sarcasm. "And how _are_ we today?"

Abby leaned sideways in her chair, away from the window, and slid down in her seat. Her eyes darted only once, and futilely, to the door, but she didn't have a chance of making it up to the front of the room and out into the hall. There was no escaping this. And, anyway, if she stood up in the middle of a history exam, seemingly unprovoked, and went running out of the room, everyone in her form would finally have the evidence they needed to prove her mad. Left without options, Abby clammed up and mutely gripped her pencil.

The little girl at the window leaned further into the room, eyeing Abby's exam. "History, is it? The Byzantines? That test paper seems _awfully_ blank." She smiled again, her demonic smile. "I could help you, you know. It's simple, really."

Abby managed to draw her eyes away from the girl, someone she both feared and considered something of an ally, and only shook her head. A few answers wouldn't hurt, but she doubted they were talking about a simple school test anymore. She studiously kept her eyes on the paper and tapped her pencil against the side of the desk, working hard at keeping her mouth shut.

The devil on her shoulder pouted. "Not a word for your best friend in the whole wide world, Abby, dearest?" She gave a biting laugh, harsh and cold. "Or should I have said _only_ friend? You're very pretty, you know, darling – there's no reason why you can't have the world eating out of the palm of your hand. You just say the word, one little affirmative, and I'll fix _everything_." She paused, considering her stubborn prey, then leaned over so they were cheek to cheek and rested her hand on Abby's shoulder. She grinned again when the older girl shivered and tried to shy away from her touch. "I'll kill him, Abby," she whispered in her ear. "I'll get rid of your father, and your mother, too, if you'd like; she's _just_ as guilty. And I'll make sure you run into those handsome young Americans again, when you're old enough to understand what to do with them, of course."

Abby felt her proverbial armor cracking, every word out of the little demon's mouth chipping and clawing at mental chain mail that had once seemed impenetrable. The constant repetition, the implied possibilities and mentions of all her future could hold – the torment and anguish were absolutely _unbearable_. She was only repeating everything she'd already said, hoping to find the one weakest point before she plunger her dagger in and twisted. _The death blow_. Abby could feel sweat on her brow, knew her palms were going to get clammy and her pencil would slip from her grasp. Her friend smiled.

"I fix up your life for you," she continued in her calming, suggestive murmur, "and I give you everything you've ever dreamed of and more. And you get ten years – _ten years_ – to enjoy all of my gifts; plenty of time. By the time I come to collect my fee, you'll practically be worn out by this world. You'll be _glad _to see me again, Abigail, I can promise you that."

Abby squeezed her eyes shut and placed her pencil, a little too loudly, on her desk. "No," she whispered with only a slight nod of the head to emphasize her refusal.

"Come now, Abby, you're a smart girl. You can see that the deal I'm offering is _far _superior to your current conditions…"

"No." Abby clutched the sides of her desk, keeping her eyes on her test. The boy to her right glanced at her strangely, then shook his head in a gesture more pitying than exasperated and returned to his own exam. She glanced at him, pleading for help with her gaze, but he was already back to ignoring her.

"Ten years free of your parents. No Mummy to hate you, to drink her troubles away until she's a bloody mess, no Daddy to come into your room whenever he has his urges…"

"Stop."

"Ten years to grow up and get rich on your own – you don't _need _any of this, Abby, dear, you only need _me_."

"_Stop_ it."

"I snap my fingers and with one eensy kiss, it's done. You'll be _free_, darling. I'm your friend; would I lie to you?"

She couldn't take it anymore. Abby dropped her head to the desk and put her hands over her ears. A few of the other students glanced over their shoulders to see what was wrong with the loon now, but became disinterested when she didn't do anything more than clutch her skill, muttering incoherently and whimpering in fright until the class came to an end at last.

And as abruptly as she'd come, the little girl took her leave.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: **_Erm...surprise? Things get intense in this chapter. Only one more planned to write and then this story will be complete! But I've had a sequel up my sleeve since I started ;] ENJOY.

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing and no one.

**-  
FOUR  
**_Do you come here much? I gotta see your face some more._**  
- **

**May 1998  
Maidstone, Kent, England**

So _this_ must have been the view that had led Sam to his ridiculous conversation starter that morning. The brothers had swapped off surveillance duty, but Sammy's time on the Tarrant property hadn't gained them any new leads in the case. The younger Winchester had questioned Abby briefly, noting that she'd seemed shaken and even more reserved than usual the night before, but when he'd asked if she was okay, she'd forced a smile and a nod and hurried him out of the house. Dean, in his post in the bushes at the edge of the enormous backyard, sighed. They couldn't make the kid talk if she didn't want to, but something had happened that might have been important to the case. When Dean had said as much over breakfast, Sam had gotten a strange gleam in his eye and smirked.

"If you'd been there, she probably would have told you _exactly _what happened," he'd said coyly, sipping at the tea the kindly waitress in the bed and breakfast's small dining room had brought him.

Dean had sent his own cup back in exchange for black coffee, and he'd glared at Sam in an irritable, pre-caffeine daze. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam had chuckled into his cup. "Dude," he'd said, all seriousness, as he put the cup aside in favor of a slice of toast, "you do realize she's in love with you, right?"

"She's a kid, Sammy," Dean had hurried to reply, a little flustered and completely in disbelief. _Abby? _The kid who couldn't muster more than a few sentences for anybody was _in love_? And with _him_? He couldn't even move beyond who she was now to take in the full absurdity of the fact that the witty little vixen who would grow up to become one of their worst enemies was supposedly lovesick over him – frickin' ridiculous!

Sam had shrugged easily. "She's got a crush on you, whatever. It's all the same to girls at that age, right?" Dean remembered grinning at that, all sly and full of _amazing_ memories of girls at that exact age, and Sam had shaken his head with a weary sigh. "Don't you remember being fourteen?"

"I remember that time we took out the monster under your bed," Dean had replied, leaning back and grinning until the waitress brought him his coffee and left. "I was fourteen then."

"Well, from what I can gather, this is kind of like that," Sam had said with a roll of his eyes. "Except, for her, it's worse."

There was a beat, a comedic pause, and then Dean had picked up his steaming coffee mug and replied nonchalantly, "Sucks to be a girl."

And that had been the end of that, the end of a conversation too ridiculous to continue and too stupid to think of beyond the last drop of his weak British coffee. Sammy's acute observation hadn't spent much time at the forefront of Dean's mind, as they ran through the game plan for the day and set out to execute it. But, now, huddled in the Tarrants' bushes in their backyard and staring up at the house for any signs of unrest or demonic activity, the thought came rushing back. And, with that familiar disbelief, Dean couldn't help but admit that, maybe, Sam was right.

The kid certainly _looked_ like a teenager in love. Currently, shy little Abby Tarrant was perched in her large window, which was thrown wide open, and overlooking the expanse of land that made up her backyard. There was some pop song floating out over the night, something that seemed to be popular now (she apparently knew every word), but that Dean didn't recognize. But what made the scene a true confession of her love for "Agent Morrison" and not just Sam imagining things or Dean on an ego trip was the fact that she pulled out a business card Dean had slipped her on their first meeting. She didn't kiss it or press it to her heart or anything as equally cheesy as that, but just the way she looked at it was enough.

Dean readjusted in the bushes. It was kind of sweet – in an entirely creepy and semi-pedophilic way. She was an attractive girl, but…_hell, she's four-friggin'-teen! _It wasn't like he returned the sentiment, or anything, but he just _really_ hoped he made it out of England without a sexual assault charge. She didn't seem capable of anything beyond mild flirting and daydreaming, but he had to keep his wits about him next time they talked, and find a way to let her down gently.

The sappy song ended and Abby glanced back into her room with what looked like, from this distance, a sigh. She rose and adjusted the music, only to return to her perch, lean back against the window frame, and smile out at the darkness of undoubtedly past her bedtime.

_Is that…Zeppelin? _Dean stifled a belly laugh. His one mention of a few vague bands and genres, and here she had managed to pick out his favorite band and his favorite song. _Where the hell did she get this? _But the surprises didn't end there. For the next hour and a half, Abby managed to strike a fine balance between girly, "romantic" love songs (there was plenty of Spice Girls mixed in there; that much Dean caught) and a lot of classic rock. She blasted Foreigner, Styx, some more Zeppelin, Aerosmith, and mixed it all with her current favorites. It was strange, but it was like magic – or something else equally idiotic.

Dean often found himself transfixed by the girl in the window, as she smiled at every new song and turned from her perch to change artists and, sometimes, sang along with the songs she knew well. And then he'd remember that he was there for surveillance and recon, and _not_ to watch some hormonal teen girl get lost in her fantasies, and he'd scan the perimeter and squint up at the house and make sure all was as quiet as the last time he'd forgotten where he was and what he was doing. If only he could record this; if only he could somehow fast forward, with this knowledge safe in hand, to the fall of 2007, so he could rub all of its sappy embarrassment in Bela's haughty British face. He was practically glowing at the idea – "Hey, Bells, you still remember all the words to 'Naked'?" _Oh_, yeah. That would be a winner.

Abby, for her part, was now performing a rather stirring rendition of "The Best of Times" (Styx – a classic). She wasn't singing particularly loud and the hour hadn't yet grown particularly late, but she didn't feel that usual rush of surprise and sudden fear when she heard her bedroom door swing open. In fact, as her father flipped off the light switch closest to the door, cutting about half the light in the room, she could really only feel grateful. He stood, motionless, without drawing breath, in the doorway. Abby's only sign that she acknowledged his presence was that she stopped her singing.

_I've been lucky_, she reflected in her silence, refusing to look at him until she absolutely had to. She let her head fall, eyes shut, as if suddenly too weary to keep her neck straight; her shoulders slumped as her luck ran out. It had been a good run – _a week_. Seven days? It _had_ to be a new record for him, of sorts, or maybe he'd finally lost his taste for her. She wasn't a child anymore, after all; almost-fifteen didn't seem quite as attractive as seven to a man with his…_illness_.

That was her mother's word – it was always "your father's _illness_," if anything at all, as if you could hear the italics in Alice Tarrant's voice. She knew just how ridiculous that sounded, but Alice was desperate to maintain the life to which she'd become accustomed, with her seemingly perfect home, complete with doting, good-natured husband and brilliant, beautiful, polite little daughter. In any and all matters that challenged the public's squeaky clean view of Thomas, Alice, and Abigail Tarrant, the woman of the house turned a blind eye, often retreating into a bottle of whatever they had on hand. Sometimes, it would be something strong, handing her over into merciful oblivion in a matter of hours. But, sometimes, feigned ignorance wouldn't come quickly enough; there were too many nights she'd curled into her Egyptian sheets and stared, bleary-eyed, into the darkness, trying to ignore her husband's disappearance, her daughter's weak protests and muted sobs, and, in the morning, she'd sit, slumped, in the kitchen, chugging coffee to start her day and studiously averting her gaze when Abby appeared with swollen eyes and her general aura of discomfort and mistrust. The alcohol helped on the nights when her husband chose to share her bed, too. Though they slept side-by-side, it had been _much _too long since anything other than sleep had happened in the Tarrants' marital bed.

Tonight, she'd felt only an unsatisfactory buzz after a generous serving of good cognac, so she tipped a single sleeping pill out of the bottle in the private master bath and downed it with the remains of her drink. After that, she toppled into bed around eight-thirty and immediately fell asleep, rendering her completely useless for anything for the rest of the night. Thomas knew this; Abby did, too. With Perkins tucked away in his quarters on the other side of the sprawling Tudor for the evening, father and daughter were more or less alone in the house. Abby stiffened as her father took two steps into the room, but she showed no other emotion.

"Abigail."

She restrained the urge to wince, to gag. He wasn't very near, but still too close for comfort. Being in the same _country _with the man was being too close for comfort.

"Abby." His voice was reasonable, almost friendly and nonchalant. "Don't you think it's time to shut off the music?"

She swallowed, but nothing could get past the lump in her throat. She nodded meekly.

Her father clenched the door knob, keeping his cool and showing an almost admirable amount of restraint. "And, perhaps, it's time for bed?"

Abby dropped her eyes farther, looking past the grass of the backyard and contemplating the drop to the back terrace. She was battling hard to keep herself from breaking down. She'd yelled and cried in front of him too many times; she'd begged for mercy, tried to reason with him, appealed to the grain of goodness that had to exist, _somewhere_, within him. She thought about trying to fight back, and she knew she'd try it again tonight, and then again and again, every time he approached, but it would never do any good. She'd tried everything, and none of it had ever worked.

Her mind was far away, but her eyes were still on the pavement below. _How high up are we? How much would it hurt to land on that stone?_ She knew she'd never do it, but it was worth the passing thought; she'd never seriously considered escape in the face of mounting doom before.

"Abigail," her father murmured, taking another step into the room and balling one hand into a fist to keep his voice from quivering with mounting excitement, "it's bedtime."

Dean didn't need to see anymore. Sitting here, frozen, in the bushes, while a teenage girl found herself lured into yet another liaison with a sick man (_her father_), wasn't doing any good. The elder Winchester stayed put only long enough to watch Abby turn, at last, eyes frightened but defiant, towards her father and an all-too-familiar routine. And then, he was up and running towards the house.

Dean made it from his hiding spot, just beyond the swing set, to the back terrace in record time, then leapt over the steps and nearly slammed into the door that opened into the kitchen. He paused, closing his eyes for a moment to remember the layout of the house. _Kitchen, then the long hallway, past the study, into the foyer, up the stairs_, he remembered, though he had no idea how he'd find Abby's room once he finally hit the second floor._ Where the hell is the butler, again? _Dean could try breaking in, but it would take too long. His thoughts led him back to Perkins. The Tarrants housed their loyal servants near the kitchen, didn't they?

Without another moment's hesitation, Dean started pounding on the door, bellowing the butler's name. He'd never seen a cook, or a maid, or any of the other people the family undoubtedly kept employed and on the premises to keep up their charade as the perfectly happy and giddily rich English country family, but he was sure someone was just beyond this door. All he had to do was knock a little louder, give the door a few kicks until he scuffed the paint, and kept yelling his head off for Perkins to open the door.

An overhead light when on in the kitchen and the old butler bustled to the door, opening it as he finished typing up his robe. He was followed by a plump middle-aged woman wielding a frying pan and another younger woman, who muttered something Dean didn't fully catch about the devil.

_Oh, honey, you don't know the half of it. _He thought he'd said that aloud. Apparently, the situation rendered him incapable of sarcasm.

"Agent Morrison," Perkins said in surprise, wide awake, as Dean pushed past him and thundered down the hall. The employees stood in their night clothes by the open door, gawking at the crazy American running rampant in their household, and then simply shook their heads, put on some tea, and muttered hopes to each other that he wouldn't wake up the missus.

Dean found it hard to believe that everyone in this damn house either knew what was going on and worked to cover it up or ignored it, while the rest were clearly well-meaning and blatantly clueless (or, at least, pretending to be so as not to rock the boat). He pushed aside vague ideas on guilt and innocence and shades of gray in order to focus all his attentions on pounding up the grand Tarrant staircase, three steps at a time, and then pausing for only half a moment on the second floor to get his bearings. The hallway was dark, most of the doors closed and the doorframes dark. But there was one…the door closed and locked, a single dim light leading the way, the sounds of a struggle, a girl forcibly muttering her dissent as a man growled at her to shut up and be a good girl.

The hunter pulled his gun from the back of his jeans, from where it was hidden under his jacket, and hurried towards the door on silent feet. He paused, took a breath, then turned to face the bedroom door and kicked it in with all his might. "Get the hell away from her," he shouted in the heat of the moment, his gun leveled at Thomas Tarrant's left eye for a clean kill shot.

With surprising grace and quick reflexes, the older man leapt off his daughter's bed at Dean's entrance and halfheartedly raised his hands to ward off any bullets he intended to let fly. Abby was shivering, arms up and one knee raised to fight her father off, and she seemed on the edge of hysteria. It was startling. He'd seen her frightened before, over the last few days, but never so near losing control of herself. Dean knew he couldn't allow himself to be hypnotized by the image of the terrified girl just yet, though Abby lying paralyzed on her bedspread was already something seared into his brain, a memory never to be erased.

"You sick bastard," Dean growled, grabbing Thomas by the back of the neck and forcing him to his knees. He held the muzzle of the gun at the base of the older man's neck, partially as a threat and partially because he was still contemplating whether he should just do it or not. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it. But he took another deep breath and replaced the gun in its hiding place on his person. _Think logically; rationally. Focus_. He didn't want to end up in the Tower for murder – or whatever the hell they did to criminals in this backwards country.

Dean made quick work of getting Thomas Tarrant on the floor, holding the man there with a hand on one shoulder, the other hand on the man's wrists, and a knee in the middle of his back. Abby pushed herself into a sitting position, her clothing askew as she made a feeble attempt, with shaking hands, to make herself presentable. Dean, as if suddenly remembering again that he was here for her and not to satisfy his own need for vengeance, glanced up at her and asked a little too gruffly, "Are you okay?"

She didn't reply. Her eyes were focused on her father, his face mashed into the hardwood floor. Feebly, she began to nod, then shook her head, then nodded again. Her teeth were practically chattering. Was that normal?

_Shock? _He didn't know, so he pressed onward, realizing that he hadn't asked the right question to find out what he wanted to know. Of _course _the kid wasn't okay. "Did he hurt you?" Dean tried again, watching carefully for a tell that she was lying when she tried to nod to him that everything was fine. But it was perversely satisfying to watch her nod honestly, to know she was telling him the truth. Dean could see a bruise blooming on the side of her neck, on one upper arm. That was all he needed to see, all he needed to know.

Dean hauled Thomas to shaky feet and shoved the middle-aged man roughly towards the ruined bedroom door. "All right, asshole, we're gonna go for a little walk," he growled, then paused in the hallway and glanced back just long enough to catch Abby's eye. "Stay here," he directed. "I'll be back soon."

She wasn't going to reply, so he didn't wait for one. On the way down the main stairs, the plump older woman hurried past in the opposite direction. She gaped at the sight of her employer, looking wild and disheveled, and seemingly in custody for something. "Mr. Tarrant?" Her voice was shaking, unsure, as she looked to Dean and inquired, "What's happening? What's been going on here?"

Dean stopped on the stairs; the woman stopped, too. He met her eye. "You mean you don't know," he said flatly, not a question. The woman shook her head viciously, so hard it seemed like it would spin off and go toppling down the stairs. Dean sneered, then turned back to the matter at hand and continued down the stairs. "Keep an eye on Abby for me."

Perkins was stationed at the bottom of the stairs, as shocked as his fellow Tarrant servant. "What _has _happened, Agent Morrison?"

"Your boss, here," Dean replied, tugging on the back of the man's collar so he had to choke for a breath or two, "attacked his daughter. This wasn't why we were sent here, but I can't pass up a pedophile when I find one."

"Dear God," Perkins murmured. He couldn't bring himself to look at the man he'd served faithfully since he was a little boy. "I…I had absolutely no idea. I don't know how this happened without anyone realizing it. Mrs. Tarrant…"

"She probably knows," Dean interrupted. "The drinking – her dirty little secret. I've seen it a thousand times."

The younger woman shuffled down the hall in her slippers and terrycloth robe, having caught enough of the conversation to know that a glass of water was in order upstairs. "We'll watch her, sir, and make sure she's all right," she assured Dean, casting a dark look at Thomas Tarrant before hustling up the stairs.

Dean was grateful for the woman's foresight later, but right now, he ignored her. He turned away from Perkins, the butler continuing to hover awkwardly at the foot of the stairs as he wrestled to make sense of it all, and the hunter dragged the businessman down the hall, through the kitchen, and back out into the black night, making sure to let Thomas accidentally stumble into a few walls and precious artifacts of his success on the way. Dean tossed the man carelessly down the terrace steps and followed after as he rolled to a stop, groaning, in the grass.

Dean Winchester was always one to enjoy a good fight. It was usually kind of crappy when it was so one-sided, but if the guy really deserved it, Dean found it in his heart to thoroughly enjoy beating the shit out of him. He went to work on Thomas Tarrant, focusing a few solid blows to the gut to knock the wind out of the older man and then landing a few good hits to his skull. There was the satisfying crunch and rush of blood that signified a broken nose, and the businessman seemed dazed as he fell to his knees and then flopped, exhausted, onto his side.

Thomas had tried deflecting the blows, hoping to just ride out Dean's rage, but when the blows kept coming, he made an attempt to fight back. Neither tactic was especially effective – despite his height and build, a life spent in an office in London had made him soft. He moaned and curled into a ball, trying in vain to ward off a few good kicks to his torso, and allowed himself to sniffle and choke on tears and blood when Dean paused, for just a moment, in his assault.

"You can't do this," Thomas managed, inhaling hard to regain some semblance of his composure. With great effort, he raised his eyes to meet Dean's. There was some spark of his usual smarmy self-assurance there again, the look that made Dean's skin crawl. "I'll report you – I'll have your badge," Thomas threatened. "You'll never work again. I'll have you locked up for the rest of your miserable life."

To the businessman's surprise, Dean had a huge, malicious grin on his face as he squatted beside him. The hunter took Thomas Tarrant's face roughly in one hand, raising his face so he didn't miss a word he had to say. "Guess what," Dean said, speaking slowly so as to be understood, "I'm not a cop. And I have _no _problem killing asswipe perverts like you."

Watching the light go out of Tarrant's eyes at that proclamation was one of the most satisfying moments Dean could ever hope to see. He ruffled the older man's hair amiably, then stood and dragged the businessman back to his feet. Sagging and panting, Thomas hung from Dean's grasp without argument, glancing at the younger man and then back at the grass. Dean held him there for a moment, before slamming his fist into the man's stomach once more, for good measure, and then connecting his knee to the man's face as he doubled over in pain. Disgusted, Dean shoved Thomas backwards and let him sprawl in the grass, nudging his side and giving a hard smile when the older man yelped in pain and weakly wrapped his arms around his knees.

Standing over the businessman, a husband and father, this man who had almost been knighted by the Queen and who probably had more money than God (if the bastard existed), Dean took a breath and let his anger subside. "I could kill you," he said conversationally, "but I think I'll let you hang out here for a little while, just as you are. You'll wish you were dead tomorrow, trust me; I've done this a lot. Oh, and you'll wanna get some ice on that face of yours if you want to be presentable at the office tomorrow." He bowed his head a little, mockingly. "And, if you'll excuse me, _sir_, I have more important matters to attend to."

Dean kept an eye on Thomas as he strode back towards the terrace, just to make sure the agony he was playing out on the grass wasn't a cover for a sneak attack. He crossed the threshold back indoors, closing and locking the kitchen door after him and making note of Perkins at the counter, making a fresh pot of coffee. The distinguished old man gave a small nod, which Dean returned, before the younger man hastened down the long hallway into the foyer, and then walked up the stairs to Abby's room.

He found the two women perched on opposite sides of the girl's bed, the older woman with an arm around Abby and the younger nearer the foot of the bed, her expression concerned. The older woman had clearly been trying to coax Abby into speaking about what had happened, as if it weren't obvious enough, and she held the nearly full water glass, forgotten, in one hand. Their soft tones stopped until the room fell into silence, as Dean quietly stepped out of the dark hallway and into the room, lit by the single lamp beside Abby's bed. The two women glanced up at Dean's entrance. Abby kept her eyes on her lap, where she had her legs curled under her and her hands clenched to keep from shaking.

"Can we, uh…have a moment?" Dean glanced from the older woman to the younger. Neither moved.

"How did you know?" the younger inquired, her fingers absently tidying the bedspread as she spoke. A maid? A nanny? Who knew what these rich people hired others to do for them these days.

"Johanna," the older woman said, her voice quietly reprimanding as her eyes slid to her colleague's face.

The young woman shook her head. "None of us knew," she replied. "Perkins has been here forever. You've been cooking for these people for almost twenty years. And I've been cleaning up their messes for three years now, just this month. And none of us knew about…about this. We can't sweep this under the rug, Mrs. Norris, not like the Missus and her drinking or Mr. Tarrant's affairs."

"Johanna!" Mrs. Norris' voice was sharper now, unable to break the habit of loyal service to the Tarrant family. She took a breath to settle down, to compose herself. "We'll go straight to the police, just as soon as possible," she replied quietly, and absently squeezed Abby's shoulder. "I can't believe we didn't know, either, darling. Thomas Tarrant is nothing if not clever." She shook her head slowly, then looked back to Dean, as if suddenly remembering he was listening in on their conversation. "What happened here, tonight, sir? Who are you and how is it you were able to stop something not one of us ever realized was going on?"

Dean searched his jacket pockets before, luckily, pulling out his fake CIA badge and flipping it open for the women to scrutinize. "I'm Agent Morrison with the Central Intelligence Agency. My partner and I first came here to investigate another case, but we both sensed that something else was going on here." He paused to tuck the badge away in an accessible pocket. "I can't really explain what happened here or how I knew – right place, right time, I guess. Don't feel guilty about not knowing, ladies. When a guy like Tarrant doesn't want people to know something, they won't know about it. Now, uh…" He scratched the back of his head and gestured to Abby. "I was hoping to talk to Abby, take a statement so we have something to bring to the local authorities. It's routine."

Mrs. Norris rose, subtly gesturing for Johanna to do the same. "I'll call the constable," she announced helpfully, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on the top of Abby's head.

"Not yet," Dean replied, a little too sharp for their liking. He cleared his throat to try again. "My partner and I will take care of the necessary legwork as soon as possible. You'll be called upon as witnesses, when this gets out, but, for now, it's probably best if we all just get a good night's sleep and then tackle Thomas Tarrant when we're actually ready to do so."

The women seemed hesitant, especially Johanna. But, at the mention of their employer's name, Dean had found it impossible to ignore the flash of worry and fear in their eyes. The house was always quiet and cold, which meant Thomas was fond of his control over everybody in the place, by whatever means necessary. And there was still that old-fashioned value of keeping dirty laundry in the family, where it belonged, standing in the way of getting this situation fixed, as sick as it was. The hunter could almost see why a young Abby had seen no way out but the scary little demon on the swings.

_Well, Sam and I weren't here the first time around_, Dean reminded himself. His smile was grim, but grateful, as Mrs. Norris and Johanna filed out of the room, the first shaking his hand and thanking him for his help, while the latter simply nodded, glanced back at Abby just once, and then followed her superior down to the kitchen for some coffee with Perkins, leaving the door ajar after her. Dean hovered just inside the bedroom as Abby remained, as still as a statue, on her bed, not moving and refusing to look at him. Dean knew he had to proceed with caution, so he took only one more step into the room and waited.

She wasn't crying; that was the strangest part about all of this. She was still trembling, as the bruises within sight darkened and bloomed, and she had given up trying to look like anything but a victim. But there wasn't a tear on her face. _Tough kid_. Dean knew a little something about that – about not showing weakness and fighting through a shitty situation and all that other crap he'd been raised to believe was admirable. Maybe it was. He shook his head a little and took another few steps closer, until he could lower himself gingerly onto the bed. Abby stiffened, but didn't run. He took that as a positive sign and slid a little closer to her on the bed. Subtly, she leaned away; Dean paused, waiting.

"You can get through this, Abby," he said at last, after a painful silence. Dean kept his eyes on the doorway, studiously giving the girl some semblance of privacy. "You can report the bastard and get yourself a better life. Everything you need to make this go away is in this house – your strength, your discipline…your butler." He turned his head to grin at her as she chuckled weakly, but the sound died in her throat and was replaced by a strangled gulp and sob.

Abby held a hand to her mouth, inhaling and exhaling in practiced rhythm to regain control of her emotions. Slowly, Dean raised a hand and laid it awkwardly on her shoulder, hoping it came across as comforting. "Hey," he said firmly, giving her shoulder a little shake to remind her that she wasn't alone. Wordlessly, she raised her head and met his eyes. He repeated gently, "Hey – hey, kid," caught off his guard when Abby suddenly lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, breaking into unabashed sobs and shaking with terror. Dean's arms went around her instinctively, clutching her hair at the base of her neck and keeping a firm hold across her shoulder blades with his other arm, rubbing her shoulder and keeping her head against his chest.

He could feel tears on his neck, soaking through his shirt, breaking down walls and making him question everything he'd understood. The only time he'd known Bela to cry was the night she'd died – somehow, this was worse. Dean decided he'd just have to ride it out and try not to make it worse, hoping the embrace and a few words would be comfort enough in this aftermath. Soon, he could make out words in her unintelligible sobbing and bawling, though it didn't take long to piece together the simple question, "Why?" He didn't know and told her as much, but she kept asking.

Eventually, thankfully, she wore herself out and whimpered towards sleep, and Dean gently laid her out on her bed and draped a blanket over her sleeping form. He perched on her windowsill, just as she had hours ago, and hazarded one glance out to the backyard. Thomas was gone, perhaps off to a hotel – or a hospital – as Dean was relatively sure the older man wouldn't have risked coming back into his house. Dean turned his attention back to Abby, keeping a close eye on her until the first light of a new day began to lighten the sky over the distant treetops.

She rolled onto her side, deep in sleep, and Dean turned away from the window to take his cue to leave. He wanted to be gone by the time she stirred – he couldn't handle rehashing the evening again on his pitiful amount of sleep. He stood and stretched, then dug into his jacket pocket and came back with a wad of pounds and a chewed pen. He borrowed a scrap of paper from Abby's desk and leaned on the dresser to write, _Sorry about your door_. Dean counted the money, frowned, and slipped a few of the bills back into his pocket, then neatly arranged the rest under his note and left the room without looking back. She wasn't just broken, she was shattered. And one more look at her slumbering form would draw him back into this strange little world, when all Dean wanted to do was nail her bastard of a father to the wall.

Dean passed through the kitchen on his way out of the Tarrant home, and he was surprised to see the family servants up and about. It became immediately apparent that they hadn't slept at all, either.

The maid, Johanna, rose from her seat at the small kitchen table, clutching a mug of something hot and delicious to her chest. "How is she?" she managed, shuffling aside all the other questions for later.

Dean didn't know how to reply. "Keep an eye on her," he advised, then cleared his throat. "I'm going to fix this. It's what I do."

"I'll show you out," the butler said quietly. He unlocked the back terrace door and waved Dean through with a small smile of gratitude. "We look forward to seeing you again, Agent Morrison."

"Call me Dean," he corrected the old man absently, and then he hurried off into the new day.

* * *

"Broken bones, a black eye, numerous lacerations, and you look like you haven't slept in, oh, I'd guess fifty-four hours." The doctor glanced down at the admittance paperwork in a hospital room nearly half an hour's drive from Maidstone, then back to Thomas Tarrant with a wry look on his face. "Mind if I ask who did this to you, sir?"

"Oh, God, it's so embarrassing…" Thomas forced a chuckle and winced. His torso was wrapped tightly with bandages, but that didn't mean his ribs felt any better. He smiled at the doctor and began again with, "A friend and I were at the pub, just down the road. He had a pint or three too many – I wasn't exactly a saint, myself. We had…words. God, I can't even remember what about, something trivial, I bet. The next thing I know, we're walking out off the place, looking for a taxi, and one thing or other is said again, and he doesn't like it." He sighed. "John has a bad temper when he drinks."

"So, you know this man?"

"Oh, yes, of course. One of my old schoolmates, he is. We've been thick as thieves since we were about nine or ten."

The doctor made note of the story. "This John…Mr. Tarrant, sir, I'd recommend pressing charges. I can have a policeman here to take a statement and you can teach your friend a lesson about the dangers of drinking, aye?"

"Please, don't," Thomas insisted, shaking his head wearily. "He's a family man; so am I. We all have reputations to uphold. It was a little argument."

"That resulted in three broken ribs."

"I'll heal. Honestly, I've done worse to him in the past. I remember once, at university…"

The doctor nodded along with the fabricated history for a few moments before he interrupted Thomas and nodded once more. "You'll have to stay in the hospital for a few days, regardless," he said. "Would you like us to call your wife and tell her where you are?"

Thomas grinned, his eyes hard and cold. "Yes, thank you. I'd appreciate that immensely."

* * *

Finding Sam and Dean had been far too easy. Abby may have been something of a social outcast, but there wasn't a person alive in Maidstone unwilling to partake in a little gossip. She awoke, showered, and changed not long after Dean left, then hesitated when she saw the money he'd left for her. Her door was leaning awkwardly open on only one hinge, unable to keep anyone out. As if she hadn't been pitiful enough before, now she had no door to slam and lock in the face of impending doom. And when her father got home…dear Lord, when her father got home…!

She scooped up Dean's money and dug up his business card, pausing just long enough before her mirror to make sure her hair fell in just the way she liked and shakily dabbing on some makeup. She was supposed to be at school in another hour; it didn't matter anymore.

Abby ignored the household staff and hurried into town on her bike, covering the distance in ten short minutes. It took a bit longer to order herself a cup of coffee at a local café and settle in beside an older woman who seemed to know her stuff, and then she casually inquired if the woman had noticed the odd Americans roaming about. Of _course_ she'd noticed! A bit terrifying, wasn't it? Very frightening, yes. What could they possibly be looking for?

"They're staying here in town, too, aren't they?" Abby asked, casually taking a sip of coffee and trying not to cringe at the taste. She hadn't added enough sugar.

"Oh, yes, over on Stone Street."

Abby had the courtesy to sit and wait for the woman to finish her diatribe on national politics before using school as an excuse and hurrying out the door. It would be rude of her to come around for a visit this early, especially knowing what Dean had done for her the evening before. She shivered at the memory and nearly collapsed on the street. But she didn't care. She had to see him again. She had to know what they knew. She had to find a way to understand how to save herself.

She strode confidently to the reception desk in the lobby and rang the bell smartly. When the manager appeared, Abby announced, "I need to speak to Agent Morrison." He opened his mouth to dissuade her, so she added hurriedly, "It's urgent. I need his room number."

She couldn't believe it worked. It was absolutely incredible how a simple change in attitude could sway adults one way or the other. But Abby choose the stairs over the lift and bounded up to the fourth floor, skidding to a halt in front of room 415 with Dean's pounds and the note he'd left clenched in her fist. She knocked with the other hand and then stepped back. No time to prep. No time to prepare a speech. She could only wait, money held dumbly aloft for the taking.

The hotel room door opened, but she didn't recognize the man standing in the doorframe. It wasn't Agent Densmore, and it _certainly _wasn't Agent Morrison. The man wore a tan raincoat over slacks and a disheveled shirt and tie, and the way he looked at her made her queasy, like she was of no consequence to the entire universe. He tilted his head slightly to the left, as if trying to make sense of her appearance, and said flatly, "Yes?"

"I'm here to see Dean," Abby replied, then bit her tongue. "Agent Morrison. Please. Sir."

"Dean isn't here," the man replied. "Come back later to talk to him." He began to close the door.

"Wait!" Abby caught the door and met the man's eye. "Where is he? Please. I need to talk to him."

The man opened the door again and eyed her, up and down, from her shoes to the money clenched in her fist. "You're Abigail."

Abby didn't know why she was nodding; it hadn't been a question. But if he knew who she was, she assumed she could trust that he really knew Agent Morrison. Maybe he was a part of the CIA, too – a specialist, or something. She reminded herself to stand up straight. "When will he be back?"

"Later."

"_When_?"

"Later."

Abby clenched her teeth and suppressed an exasperated sigh. She straightened out the money in her hand and pulled a pen from her pocket, scribbling a note on the back of the one Dean had left her earlier that morning. She held it out to the man. "Please, give him this when he gets back."

Hesitantly, the man took her offering. He looked at it curiously, scanned the note, then looked back at her. "I'll deliver your message." He shut the door and Abby took the hint.

* * *

He and Sam hadn't turned up much of anything that day. Cas didn't say anything when the brothers informed him of this. Instead, the angel held out something for Dean to take and then promptly vanished. Dean sat heavily on his bed and set the money aside, then turned the paper Cas had handed him over in his hands a few times. Eventually, he turned the paper over once more and his eyes focused on the side written on in neat cursive: _Let Thomas pay for his own damn door_.

There wasn't much to be smiling about in all this, but his lips twitched in admiration. "Damn kid," he muttered. Then he stuffed the money into his jacket pocket and sat back to figure out how to keep her that way.


End file.
